Almost Is Never Enough
by Sonata Appassionata
Summary: The five times Cato loved Clove, and the one time he told her so.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters belong to Suzanne Collins, and the song lyrics belong to Ariana Grande and Nathan Sykes.**

**Please read and review :)**

* * *

He was a glacier of ice, yet he was also an erupting volcano on fire. He was the rough edge of a cruel blade pressing into white throats. He was the clean swipe of metal through air. He was the delicious cries of those struggling beneath him, pleading for release. He had long taught himself to stop caring. Stop feeling. Stop fearing. Because with that, he was invincible, invulnerable. Trying to cover up chinks in armour could never be as good as not having those weaknesses in the first place. Cato spoke what he wanted. He did what he wanted, all for the name of making himself under no control of anyone else, of plunging his heart into the tundra that would freeze it forever.

Oh, the irony. Wasn't fear the root that drove him to this? Feat of failing. Fear if losing. And the green, oozing fear of disappointing.

* * *

_I'd like to say we gave it a try_  
_ I'd like to blame it all on life_  
_ Maybe we just weren't right, but that's a lie, that's a lie_

**One.**

Everywhere was grey; the training centre walls, the grim-faced trainers, everything except the sneering lips of the girl before him.

"Come on! You can do much better than this!" she was yelling, her voice raw with exhilaration.

Lava bubbled within Cato. This girl had some nerve! No one, no one dared to even think of speaking to him like that. The last boy who tried had gotten his dental work bloodily rearranged.

Superior strength surged through Cato's arms as he brought his sword up in a deadly arc. The girl was quick, though. She ducked, and swiped her own sword at his feet. He leapt aside to avoid the strike. Stupid girl. Did she really think that would actually work?

He studied her, examining her form, trying to find the perfect method to bring her down. She was small and lithe, with the eyes of a predator. Her ponytail swung almost viciously as she moved. She was light, agile, and - he admitted - skilled.

He parried her strikes easily, though it was difficult to actually strike _her_. Sweat poured down Cato's brow.

Then, without warning, her foot came out at the speed of light, smashing into his solar plexus. Pain rocketed through his lower body. And in the split second when he was dazed, she was on top of him, wrestling him to the ground.

"Poor Cato," she crooned. "Beaten by a girl a head shorter than him." Her bloodred lips were curved in a satisfied sneer, strands of her hair teasingly tickling his cheek.

Cato struggled. His sword arm was stuck by his side, his wrist trapped beneath the weight of the girl's foot. Her hands were on his shoulders, forcing him down on the icy hard floor. He tried to push her off, but she was much stronger than he had imagined.

Then his half-free hand was in motion. Jerking his fingers with all the strength he could summon, Cato sent this sword in an upward arc toward the girl on top of him. It was not very fast, but it was quick enough to make her jerk to avoid the blade. In her moment of distraction, Cato threw her off him and got to his feet. He thrust out his weapon at hers and twisted hard, trying desperately to disarm her.

He felt her sword giving way, almost loose now... Then the sharp whistle screeched through the vast hall, signaling the end of the game.

They released each other, glaring.

"I win," the girl hissed. "I got you down!"

"No, me!" Cato growled. "I almost disarmed you!"

"A draw, then?"

Cato hesitated. A draw meant that he hadn't won. But it also meant that he would not have to face the prospect of telling his parents that he, Cato, had lost. Actually lost. Besides, his pride did not allow him to argue with a girl.

"Fine."

Then he paused, studying her profile. Her high, proud cheekbones. Her firm, set jaw. He smirked.

"But you aren't all bad, are you princess? Be my partner for the doubles."

* * *

_And we can deny it as much as we want_  
_ But in time our feelings will show_

**Two**.

Her name was Clove, as Cato found out soon after. She was a year younger than him, and lived not too far from his own place. As time passed, he found himself liking this girl. He liked the way her eyes burned with a passionate fury during training. He liked how each dagger pieces through the targets with deadly accuracy with each flick of her wrist. Most of all, he liked how similar she was to him.

"Did you see me beat up Tommy Gardner at training today?" Clove bragged loudly as they were walking home together one day. Her eyes gleamed. "He's, like, a foot taller than me, and now he's scared of me!" She laughed loudly, mockingly. Cato joined in.

"Total loser!"

"So," she said, turning to him. "Speaking of being scared, what does the great, all-powerful Cato fear?"

Cato stopped laughing. The air around them seemed to thicken.

"Nothing."

The terse words shot from his mouth like an arrow.

"I fear nothing."

Clove fell into step beside him.

"Really?" she asked softly.

A flash of irritation seared through Cato. Had it been anyone else, Cato would have thrown him onto the ground and beaten him into a bloody pulp. But strangely, he found himself unable to stay angry at Clove. Instead, he simply ignored her, and kept walking forward, doggedly putting one foot in front of another.

They were nearing her house. Cato could see the orange light from within spilling out of the windows, glowing against the darkening blanket of sky. They walked side by side, awkward silence filling the spaces between like thick murky liquid. Cato started to regret his earlier outburst.

"I'm scared of disappointment."

The words tumbled out of his mouth like pebbles, falling at Clove's feet, waiting to be crushed. He had not meant to say them. He had never wanted to say to anyone, the inner feelings that he had buried deep in his heart, ashamed and furious at himself. His mind reeled. Here he was, telling this girl something he had never even admitted to himself.

But the words just kept coming, spilling forward in torrents.

"I'm scared of my father's face when I'll have to tell him I lost at training. I'm just scared of - of failing. I'm scared of being worthless. I'm scare of people thinking I'm worthless. I'm just scared of being scared, okay?"

Clove faced him. In the light of the dim glow her skin looked porcelain, her eyes fixed. Cato's heart plunged. This was it. What had he done? He dug his nails into the flesh of this palm hard, feeling the sharp pain of his skin's protests. He was a coward. He had just admitted he was one. Out loud. Out loud. He was a failure, a nobody. He could not even contain his emotions.

Clove looked at him for a moment, her eyes unreadable in the fading light. She was going to scoff at him, he was sure of it. She was going to walk away in disgust.

Yet when she opened her mouth, her voice was nothing as he had heard before. It was quieter, softer.

"I know," she said simply. "And no, you're not a coward, you know."

For a moment, that was all that mattered.

* * *

_'Cause sooner or later  
We'll wonder why we gave up  
The truth is everyone knows_

**Three.**

The day of the reaping of the 74th Hunger Games was hot, yellow, and humid. The air was filled with sweat and restlessness, coiling and swirling in the thick environment. The continuous hum of the District Two population droned on like bees, deposited and swallowed up from the air by the sea of heads. The air tasted wet, warm, and impatient.

Then, all at once, it all ceased. The air became sharp as steel, the buzz died down to barely a whisper. The district's representative from the Capitol, a blue haired woman with the name of Livia Dracaene, dipped a snowy white hand into the glass bowl of female names.

Silence.

The crowd took in its collective breath, attention almost tangible.

Then the name was read.

"Clove Ashton."

It rang, loud and clear across the vast area, reverberating and echoing.

And then Cato could see her: the small but lithe figure of the girl stepping up onto the raised platform. She walked with ease and arrogant confidence, as though trained for this all her life. Her head was held majestically high, her expression a look of cocky indifference.

The tension broke. The crown erupted into applause as Livia took Clove's hand, beaming.

Cato stared.

He had never really considered the prospect of Clove being chosen at the Reaping. He wanted to applaud - it was such an honor to be chosen! - but somehow his hands refused to do it. He tried to smile, yet his lips would not obey him. Some invisible force within him was holding him back, clouding his mind with grey, sickly doubt. What was wrong with him? Clove would win the Games. She would. If she didn't, nobody could, Cato was sure. But what if she didn't? What if she wouldn't make it back? What if?

"And now, for the male tribute," announced Livia.

She pulled out a slip of paper.

"Gordon Greengrass."

The boy was so small, most of the crowd had to crane their necks to be able to catch a glimpse of him. He was twelve, only a newbie at the training centre. Cato could see him quaking with fear.

"Volunteers?" Livia Dracaene asked, sounding almost bored. District Two always had volunteers. There was no point even asking when the one picked was a twelve-year-old.

Cato glanced at the lone figure of the terrified boy. He glanced at the sea of heads before him. Then he glanced at Clove. His best friend. His partner. The sister he could have had. He thought of the sound of her triumphant laugh that he loved to hear.

"I volunteer!"

* * *

**Four**.

_The world was a sea of endless grey, sucking and pulling Cato into its depths. Indistinct, swirling figures shifted and formed around him, closing in, clouding whatever vision he had. He was batting them away, swatting furiously. Yet they kept coming, drowning him in them. Then the buzzing. It started softly, then rose in a crescendo of chaos and sound. It filled his ears, his brain, his very being. _Stop it!_ he yelled_.

As his eyes snapped open, they were upon him: a cloud of furious wasps aiming directly at his face, his neck, his body. Up close he saw flashes of their hummingbird wings darting and stinging. He tried to run, toward the voices screaming and yelling to each other ahead of him, footsteps thundering through the leaves. Blindly he staggered through the trees, crashing into rocks, bruises blossoming on his skin.

He was a survivor. A fighter. He would not be brought down by a few insects. No, _not in front of the whole watching wor_ld.

A buzz. A sharp, piercing pain beside his left ear. Then another, scorching his upper arm. A third sting plunged into his knee. He was crying out, falling onto the rough ground, his vision blurring, temples pounding. His mind dissolved. Where was he? The trees liquified, shifting like phantoms, branches reaching out of no where to claw at him, to imprison him. He failed. He failed. He was brought to his knees by a mere swarm of wasps! He was worthless. Nothing.

Out of the shadows stepped his father, wearing the same pristine, spotless white suit, and the same disparaging scowl.

_"You failed, Cato."_

The words echoed, bouncing from shadow to shadow, magnifying, ringing in a crescendo in the chambers of his mind.

_You failed. You failed. You failed._

His father advanced.

"_You're worthless."_

_Worthless. Worthless. Worthless._

And he was begging, begging!

"Stop! _Please_!"

Then a new voice, not his father's, pierced through his delirium like a hurled knife.

_"Cato! Run!"_

And pair of hands was grabbing him, pulling him onward with unexpected force.

"Please, Cato. Run!"

The trees stilled somewhat. He was able to form logical thoughts. The tracker jackers. The tree. Fire girl.

When Cato saw the boy, the worthless District 12 traitor, he knew no hesitation. The blonde hair. The pathetic features. Waves of rage rolled through him. Red seared his vision. Waterfalls of flame crashed in his ears as strength boiled once again in his arms. His sword was drawn and he was an untamed animal, slicing and cutting every bit of flesh he could reach. He would kill this boy. He would stamp him out like a cockroach.

But as the boy collapsed Cato heard the buzzing again, the press of black behind his eyelids. The wasps were closing in.

"Hurry!"

The hands were back, tugging at him again. This time, he did not resist. Together, they ran.

They were so soft, so warm, like syrup seeping into his skin, revitalizing him, bringing him back. He found himself reaching for them, wanting to hold them, feel them with a sudden desperation. He did not want them to ever leave...

And as Cato opened his eyes, the vague features of Clove's face swam before his eyes, filling his vision, his senses, his needs.

Almost exasperated, she sighed.

"You're awake."

_Almost, almost is never enough_  
_ So close to being in love_  
_ If I would have known that you wanted me_  
_ The way I wanted you_

* * *

**Five**.

"Our team of Gamemakers have decided to add a twist to this year's Hunger Games and allow two tributes to win this year. That is, if they are from the same district and the last two alive."

Cato stopped dead. Had he really heard what he thought he had? _Really_?

Then he heard it again.

"... Two tributes to win this year. ... If they are from the same district."

Cato's heart raced. His mind whirled. Two victors. If they were from the same district. Two victors! He took off running.

"Clove!"

He needed to find her. Where was she? They had split up to hunt earlier, and he had no idea where she had goner to. Damn him, he should have gone with her. He should have -

And then she was there, appearing from behind the thick trunk of a tall oak. Her hair and face were wild, her cheeks flushed. Part of her jacket was torn. But she was there. There and running toward him, a smile breaking across her face and they could both be victors of the 74th Hunger Games.

"Cato!"

Then she was in his arms, and impulsively, Cato was raising her up over him before setting her onto the ground again with a thrilling shout of laughter.

"We can both win."

Her voice was gentle, relieved, so different from her usual voice.

"We can go home together."

"Yeah," Cato breathed. He could feel her warm skin through her layers of clothing, and the sheets of muscle beneath. He felt her heartbeat, steady and reassuring against his own chest. She smelled of the forest, of cinnamon and purslane. Suddenly, he realized that he never wanted to let go of her.

"We'll go home together. I promise."

Nothing else mattered.

_Then maybe we wouldn't be two worlds apart_  
_ But right here in each others arms_

* * *

**One.**

"Cato!"

The word was ripped, torn, broken like shattering glass. A desperate grasp at life, choked and matted by terror. Terror.

"_Cato_!"

Cato was running. Pelting. Tearing. Moving faster than he ever had before. His mind seemed to freeze over, his legs automatically kicking forward to the source of that terrible scream. Nothing else registered in his senses as his breath tore at his lungs, the air clawing at him, a stitch forming in his side, his arms and legs pumping desperately forward.

Clove. Clove. The girl who never cried for help. The girl who could always defend herself. The girl who never lost in combat.

"_Clove_!"

He burst into the clearing. Then he saw her, imprisoned in the grasp of one thick arm of the boy from District Eleven, dangling a few inches off the ground, her tiny body struggling to break free. In that instant, Cato had never seen her look so small, so fragile.

Then she was thrown, before his eyes, helpless onto the ground, the District Eleven monster bearing down on her and -

- Cato would kill that boy. He was going to be to one to plunge his sword into that boy's body, feel the satisfying crunch of bone ripple up his arm, feel the warm blood spill out into the earth. He would make Eleven pay for daring to touch Clove Ashton. He would -

- The rock was raised. The solid, undefiable boulder poised over Clove's head -

- Cato's body was on fire. His arms were burning, his chest flaming, his mind boiling as all rational thought left him. His heart was a caged beast, thrashing and howling against the bars of his ribcage -

- And the rock was falling, falling -

- No, no, no, no, _no_ -

- Then it was crashing, crunching -

- _Please!_

As if in slow motion, the limp body of the girl who was Cato's friend crumpled, head first to one side. Broken. Unmoving.

The silent scream lodged in his throat never left him. Not as his legs strained with the effort of running. Not when he finally reached her. Not when he threw himself onto his knees to cradle her head in his arms.

She was alive. She was still breathing. Cato could feel the warmth of her skin, the pulse still beating in her neck. Please. Just stay this way. Please.

"Please, Clove."

He found himself shaking her hard, as though his own life depended on it. Her eyes were still open, the light still in them. Please...

And he found himself begging again. On his knees and begging once more. But he did not care that the whole world was watching. He did not care about anything else at this moment.

"Stay with me..." His voice was raw and coarse, as though unable to be squeezed through his constricted throat. "Please, please, I need you."

But the light was fading, fading like the dying rays of a setting sun. No, don't fade! Just stop fading! He was praying now. Praying to the sky, the earth, anything.

"We're partners, Clove, don't you remember? We'll go home together. We'll live side by side in the Victors' Village. You'll get to try out that silver knife you always wanted. We -"

Then the light vanished completely.

The cannon fired.

"_No!"_

He was clawing at her. Her skin, her body, everywhere. She could not be gone just like that, she simply _couldn't_! She herself had told him that they would go home together - she _promised!_

Yet her skin was no longer warm. Her eyes no longer sparkled with the untamable flame. They never would again. He was too late. He should have run faster. He could have save her. He could have saved the only person he had ever known to care about.

But he had failed. Yet again.

His heart was twisted, as though demons were ripping it apart, as though it was so desperately trying to tear its way out of this world.

"I'm sorry, Clove..."

He cradled her head, feeling the empty dent in the once perfect skull. He gazed into her face, the beautiful face that was the reason he actually got up every morning. Her skin was so clear and spotless, her lips still slightly crimson. She could have been sleeping, so peacefully, in his arms.

Cato thought of the time he first met her in the training centre, still so filled with pride and foolish hope. He thought of how she had been the only one to understand him, the only one who had actually listened. He thought of her hands reaching to him through his poisoned daze, pulling him to safety.

The words came, chewed and bittersweet, torn from him like sin, words that he realized he had meant with her all this time. Words that he had never truly understood them until he met her. Words that he should have told her so long ago, when she was still there to listen.

She was always there to listen.

His sister. His friend. His rock.

He pressed his lips to hers one first and last time...

_Here we almost, we almost knew what love was_  
_ But almost is never enough_

* * *

_I love you._


End file.
